Out of the Darkness

The script of the letter inside was different from that of the address-different and familiar. By the time you read this, Krasta read, I expect I shall be dead. I make no special plea for myself-what point to it? You know what you did, and you know what we did. You will try to deny it now, especially to yourself, but you went into our affair with your eyes open as wide as your legs.

“Powers below eat you, Lurcanio,” Krasta snarled. She almost tore the letter to pieces, but that first sentence kept her reading.

I have a favor to ask you-a deathbed favor, you might say, Lurcanio wrote. It has nothing to do with me, so you need feel no pain in granting it. Again, Krasta almost tore up the letter. Even beyond the grave, was the Algarvian trying to tell her what to do? Then she laughed unpleasantly. She could finish the whole wretched thing, find out exactly what he wanted, and then do just the opposite. She nodded to herself. The more she thought about it, the better that sounded.

“No one gives me orders,” she said. “No one.” She spoke louder than she had to, as if to persuade herself. For close to four years, Lurcanio had given her orders, and she’d-mostly-obeyed. She would be a long time forgetting that, however hard she tried.

You bore my son, Lurcanio wrote. Krasta’s scowl darkened. She wished she could forget that, too. The little bastard’s yowling made forgetting impossible, though. So did the shocking things being pregnant had done to her figure. For the moment, little Gainibu was mercifully asleep. Pretty soon, he would wake up and start being noisy again.

Even thinking about Lurcanio was easier than thinking about the baby. Because of the baby, because of what he’d turned out to be, she still had to wear this hot, uncomfortable wig whenever she appeared in public. Aye, Lurcanio and his bastard boy both had a lot to answer for.

What I ask you is, try to forget he is mine, the letter continued.

Krasta’s lip curled. “Not bloody likely!” she said.

Try to treat him as you would have treated him were the charming Viscount Valnu indeed his sire, Lurcanio wrote. You may think of me as you please. I made life inconvenient for you, I know, for I did not let you do just as you pleased-and what crime could be worse than that? Krasta studied his words. She suspected a cut was hiding among them, but couldn’t quite find it. Lurcanio had always enjoyed being obscure.

Moreover, he went on, you were too friendly with me during the war to suit Valmiera as it is now. This, I know, has caused you some embarrassment. You must be sure the said embarrassment is all my fault, and so you will hate me for it.

Krasta nodded savagely. “I certainly do!”

She could almost see Lurcanio shrugging. Hate me if you will, then, he wrote. I can do nothing about it in any case. But I beg you, my former dear, do not hate the baby. Nothing that has happened here is the baby’s fault.

“Oh, you lying son of a whore,” Krasta exclaimed. If little Gainibu hadn’t been born with sandy hair, people now wouldn’t think she herself had been a collaborator. Even Skarnu’s peasant cow of a wife wouldn’t have been able to keep scorning her, wouldn’t have been able to crop her hair right after she gave birth. No, Lurcanio didn’t understand much.